


What Makes a Good Lava Cake?

by svnwritten



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Not Beta Read, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, it's cute my gays, not beta read we die like men, roman is not good at cooking, virgil doesn't really care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 19:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svnwritten/pseuds/svnwritten
Summary: Roman wants to make a breakfast for Virgil. It does not go well.





	What Makes a Good Lava Cake?

Let’s get one thing straight - Roman _ didn’t _ make a mess in the kitchen. He called it: an artistic chaos in the cooking space. There was nothing wrong with that. The flour all over the place was the sign of his never-dying dedication. The fact that he had to go cry in the bathroom when the cake turned out weirdly heavy and oddly tough, was clearly the final proof that he didn’t lack an artistic flare. After all art required sweat (been there), tears (checked) and blood (one drop that was spilled when he cut the chocolate was enough).

But even the greatest artist, had their mentors.

Roman dialed the number. 

“Roman.” Logan never asked. He stated.

“Logan.” replied Roman through his teeth. He would not cry to Logan on the phone.

“The sound of your voice suggests that you have water in your eyes.” 

_ Well, shit. _

“I also have a question.” Roman rolled his eyes, “Let’s say you’re preparing a lava cake for the love of your life-”

“Patton prefers lemon tarts but go on…” Logan cut swiftly.

“Lava cake.” repeated Roman, “Are you sure that the lava part is supposed to be liquidy? Or maybe the recipes by ‘lava’ refer to… molten-rock-kind-of-lava?”

There was a beat of silence.

"... I think you know the answer to this question Roman. I'm hanging up right now."

"No! Nononono!" Roman roared desperately, "Please… Help me… " he added meekly, making sure that Logan still didn't end the call. 

A long sigh resonated through the phone. Roman was pretty sure that he could feel disappointed vibrations on his own skin. 

"Roman, I would love to help you," started Logan, his voice’s a tad softer than earlier, "But you know what mum always told you. You are not a good fit for a cook. Why won't you write a poem where you shall compare Virgil to a cupcake, instead of actually making a cupcake?"

"But where would be romance in this?" Cried Roman helplessly, trying to break his second cake with the first cake. 

"Virgil, loves you as much as you love him, brother. He would be thrilled to get anything from you, believe me." Logan said cooly, "Now stop this madness, clean up the mess and let me sleep. It's 6 in the morning." he finished.

_ Beep... _

"Wait, what- Logan?" Roman asked, staring intensely at the phone, "Logan wait, I don't even know how to make a perfect- ugh."

The sound that slipped through Roman's parted lips, reminded more of a war cry than a frustrated growl. Luckily his neighbours knew about his love for Game Of Thrones so in a worst case scenario they'd think he decided to make a morning marathon. 

Roman brushed Virgil's purple apron off the white flour that was currently covering it. Or was that sugar? Roman wasn't sure. Perhaps that was why the cakes turned out black after all.

It was time to face the music. 

Cake was _ not _ a good idea. 

Luckily, Roman wasn't the type of person who gave up easily. He pulled off the apron and carefully put the "cakes" into the trash bin (he was afraid that if he dropped them, he would break tiles). The key was to prepare food - no one said it _ had _ to be a cake. Besides, lava cakes were overrated. Virgil didn’t even have instagram to post a picture of a perfect chocolate goo. Yes, apparently the universe wanted Roman to prepare something easier, something more mundane, something like… What did Logan say?

It was 6 am, wasn’t it?

“Breakfast it is then!” smiled Roman to himself, completely oblivious to the sparks of madness that there brightening up his eyes. 

According to the article on wikipedia, it was impossible to mess up a breakfast (Roman would call it “mispreparing”, not “messing up”). Sure, for the past 2 years it was Virgil who was in charge of cooking, ever since he caught Roman trying to fry an egg in a toaster, but it was in the past and Roman learnt a lot since then. 

For example - he knew that he certainly needed a pan.

“Now is it a saucepan or frying pan…” he hummed happily, going through the content of the cupboards. “Is there even a difference…? It’s probably some american english and-or british english bullshit again,” Roman pondered, being completely wrong.

Finally he pulled out something that looked almost flat. He was pretty sure that the love of his life was usually using this silver shield to make his scrambled eggs. 

“Fantastic.” Roman praised himself, nodding to the pan. “The recipe suggests using one egg and butter. I assume that they don’t mean one whole butter…Hmm... ‘If you want to you can add a tomato but remember to’... Well, that seems a little bit over the top even for me.”

Carefully, not to burn himself, Roman put a spoon of butter on the pan. He stared at it for a moment, wondering vaguely why it hasn’t started melting yet. Then he turned on the burner. Pleased with the result (butter started melting!), he also turned on the oven just in case. He glanced at the clock. It was almost 7am.

“Great masterpieces take time.” he said out loud, hoping that the microwave agree. It didn’t but that was probably only because microwaves don’t talk. “It’s time for gran finale!”

Roman gently put the egg on his hand.

“You better not mess it up, mistress.” he mumbled to the egg, slowly raising the knife. He didn’t want his victim to see it coming. 

“I promise to make it quick.” he promised under his breath, before swiftly hitting the eggshell with a knife. It felt empowering, he could now understand why Virgil liked cooking so much. “And now… onto the pan…” 

One could think that there was no way someone would make a mistake at this point. But people are fools after all and some of them clearly haven’t heard of Roman. 

Step 1: Crack an egg.

Step 2: Try to put it onto the pan.

Step 3: Fail and miss the pan.

Step 4: Watch an egg hit the counter and then watch it slide on the floor.

Step 5: Remain in this position, asking why the world hates you.

If a look could cook, this egg would be fried to the bones with the way Roman stared at it. And if there was one thing he was proud of, it was the fact that there were no eggshells in this particular egg that was chilling on the floor. It however _ did _ mix with the flour that was there before.

Someone snickered and Roman turned around, almost losing his balance.

Sure enough, his boyfriend, Virgil - in his full morning glory, was standing in the door of the kitchen. He was also desperately trying to stop himself from laughing. His feet were bare and covered with white dust. He must have been standing there for a while now.

“H-hi, Virgil my dearest,” Roman stuttered, trying to ignore the crackling sound behind him. “I thought you are still asleep…”

“I woke up when I heard the fire alarm. It’s pretty loud,” explained Virgil, sporting the you-are-a-dumbass smile.

“Ah, haha. Well, it is pretty loud, isn’t it?” Roman scratched the back of his head, shooting the but-I-am-your-dumbass smile.

Virgil inhaled deeply, trying hard not to wrinkle his nose, “So… are you going to turn off that burner, Ro? Because I’d prefer not to eat the burnt butter from this wok?”

“Wo-who?” repeated Roman, his eyes widening.

“A wok. Also known as a wok pan.” explained Virgil, leaning against the counter to grab some towels, “A pan suited for Asian cuisine,” he added smirking.

“...”

“Go ahead, you can ask, Roman” beamed Virgil. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.

Roman sighed. God damn Virgil and his angelic-verging-on-mischievous smile.

“You don’t make scrambled eggs on a wok pan, do you?” he asked, knowing already what the answer was.

“Nope,” Virgil grinned and quickly pecked Roman’s lips, “But I do appreciate you trying, Ro. Although… maybe next time try to write a poem about breakfast instead of making one, what do you think?”

“But where would be romance in that?” groaned Roman softly, fixing his eyes on Virgil’s feet. He had a strange feeling of deja vu. 

Lean, slim fingers gripped on Roman’s chin, forcing him to look up.

_ Roman always thought that Virgil had the most beautiful eyes on earth. _

“What do you mean by ‘where’s the romance’?” Virgil tilted his head cutely, “‘Roman’ is right in front of me and the ‘ce’ part is simply overrated.” he smiled, making it impossible for Roman not to lean closer and close the gap between their lips.

“Happy anniversary, Virgil.” he mumbled into a kiss, feeling the curl of Virgil’s lips against his own.

“Happy anniv, Ro.”

_ The end. _


End file.
